


How the Light Moves

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art History, Gen, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: Jean and Marco are painters enrolled at the French Académie des Beaux-Arts in 19th century France. Jean is looking for fame and fortune at the Academy; Marco is more interested in finding his own inner truth and painting the world as he sees it. As they become friends, they realize that painting is all about perspective.





	How the Light Moves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scorpyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpyo/gifts).



> Dear Scorp-yo, I'm your JMGE gifter! I really hope you like this spin on your historical AU prompt. I wrote what I know--art history!--and I thought this dynamic would fit the boys really well. <3 Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!

At first meeting, Jean Kirschstein reminds Marco of the type of subject matter they spend their days painting in the Académie des Beaux-Arts: mythical scenes just as bombastic as half the things Jean says about himself. He also has the talent to back up his claims of future fame and fortune, though. Rumors are that he’s from somewhere in Paris.

Marco, on the other hand, comes from humble origins, thrilled to be accepted into the Academy to study with the most important painters of the day. No one thought a boy whose skin was peppered with freckled from working outdoors would end up a painter, but here he is.

However, the more time Marco spends in the studio, the more dreary painting seems.

Having a classmate like Jean also doesn’t help. Jean is not only loud, but he seems to care nothing for any inner truth in painting. He likes painting anything that wins him praise, though he does work hard.

It’s been raining for weeks when Marco finally gets the gumption to make conversation with Jean.

They’ve been working on the same study for hours, and most of the other students have called it a day, including the model. Jean and Marco are the ones who routinely end up in the classroom last, working diligently on refining sketches and studies to incorporate into larger compositions.

The goal of any student in the Academy is to win recognition and accolades for paintings accepted into the annual Salon de Paris exhibition. Marco isn’t sure whether Jean in it solely for the gold and glory, but he can’t help but be fascinated by the fact that someone with so much raw talent seems to have little care for the art he creates.

He decides to break the silence with Jean. He’s relatively sure he’ll get a dismissive response, but it’s better than just listening to the rain.

“Jean,” he says amicably.

Jean looks up after a moment, blinking in surprise that someone has actually spoken to him. He doesn’t seem to have many friends inside or outside the Academy.

“Yeah?” he replies, raising an eyebrow, as if offended at being interrupted.

Marco offers a sheepish smile. It’s not as if he wants to interrupt Jean’s work. He knows how important it is to keep up with the rest of the class if there’s any hope of having an actual artistic career with prospects and patrons.

“I’m going to break for the day and get dinner. Would you like to come?”

To Marco’s surprise, Jean actually hesitates and doesn’t immediately decline the invitation.

“It’s been raining for too long,” he adds, frowning a little. “I miss the sunshine.”

“Well, then,” Jean says tartly as the intrigued expression turns to one of the condescension, “if you’re so eager to go outside, work on a farm.”

“I did work on a farm,” Marco replies pleasantly, not at all rattled by Jean’s tone as he knows most of their classmates are. “I wanted to paint instead, so I came here.”

Jean blinks at him, as if he’s not expecting the response and seems at a loss for a moment, before saying haltingly, “Where are you going?”

Marco smiles. “There’s a small café around the corner I like. I prefer company, if you don’t mind.”

Jean shrugs. “All right.”

*

Marco doesn’t care much about the food in Paris, especially since he can’t afford most of it; but what he does care about is people watching. He likes to see who comes in and out of the cafes and bars he frequents almost as much as he enjoys watching how the light changes. The city is just as grandiose as he always imagined it to be. He hadn’t actually visited his own country’s capital until he’d come to study at the Academy a year ago.

“So,” Jean says, looking bored as he glances around, “what’s so great about this place?” 

Café Guerbois is the type of place that no one with ambitions to be a great academic painter would want to be seen, but Marco is willing to bet that Jean hasn’t figured that out yet. He’d heard that writers and artists gather at the café, and he’s been waiting to meet someone to share ideas with.

“I mostly just order coffee,” Marco explains with a small shrug. “I like to watch everyone.”

Jean looks puzzled, but shrugs. “That sounds like a waste of time.” Unexpectedly, he faces Marco with a level look. His stare is intimidating because, despite his bluster and ego, he’s clearly very intelligent. Marco simply allows himself to be studied.

“Why did you decide to become a painter?” Marco asks politely as the server comes to take their order. They both decide on coffee, and Marco can’t help but wonder if he’s not alone in having a meager food budget.

“I’m good at it,” he replies dispassionately, eyeing Marco warily. “And if I can find the right patrons, I can live differently than… _this_ ,” he says, gesturing around, as if the answer is self-explanatory.

“Like… what?” Marco asks, cocking his head to the side curiously.

“Ordering crap coffee in a café instead of having servants.” He snorts derisively. “Which is why I said before: this type of thing is a waste of time.” He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward aggressively, though the gesture is belied by the casual way he rests his head in his hand.

Admittedly, one other reason that Marco is curious about Jean is the fact that he’s rather handsome, and Marco knows what he likes. Perhaps no one _else_ knows, and he hasn’t frequented any of the establishments he’s heard that cater to people “like” him, but he wonders if Jean is similar. Maybe even hoping he is, deep down.

“I became a painter because I wanted to find truth in the world,” Marco offers, ignoring the jab at his choice to spend time drinking coffee and watching people. “Not the type of truth you see in stories, though.”

“Well, it’s those stories that are going to guarantee me first prize this year at the Salon exhibition,” Jean retorts haughtily. “My _Sappho_ is sure to be the best thing the jury has seen in years.” 

The worst part is that Marco can’t even fault him. He’s seen Jean’s painting in progress and the sketches he’s made for it. It’s destined to be the epitome of everything they’ve tried to achieve in painting.

“Good luck,” Marco says with a nod. 

Jean finishes his coffee and leaves, undoubtedly headed to return to his work. Marco spends the next hour sketching people that come and go, knowing that he should be working on his own studies.

There’s a woman drinking absinthe in the corner who looks tired and a little drunk. A man sits at a table alone, staring at the surface, clearly pondering some great truth; or maybe he’s just thinking about what he wants for dinner. 

This is why watching people and the outdoors is fascinating to Marco. The reality of everyday life is why he wanted to become an artist, and spending his time in dreary studios, painting bodies designed for fictional stories is increasingly unappealing.

*

Marco doesn’t expect to get much more out of Jean after their impromptu dinner of coffee and awkward conversation, but to his surprise, Jean makes it a point to wish him good morning or good night.

He starts to put smaller pieces of Jean’s life together, too. He can’t decide whether it’s curiosity or interest driving him, but he’s drawn like a moth to a flame. Maybe it’s because of all their classmates, Jean is the one who’s most honest. He makes it no secret that he has a talent he’s looking to exploit, nothing noble about it.

But there has to be something more to it than that, just as Marco is hiding the fact that he’s started to skip classes to spend more time painting outdoors. He’s following in the footsteps of the radical artists who had been shunned from Salon exhibitions and lambasted by art critics all over the city. Everyone has their secrets.

Jean is no exception, and it becomes clearer when Marco sees a letter lying out on his worktable. The return address is from an area in Paris that’s a well known slum, and it bears the last name Kirschstein.

Perhaps Jean has a wife? A child he’s trying to support? Men have all kinds of strange affairs they keep to themselves. 

“What are you looking for?” Jean’s voice is harsh as Marco jumps away from his table where the envelope is sitting. 

“Nothing!” Marco squeaks in surprise. “I just noticed...” he stammers, “that, um, you left your mail out. You don’t want someone to—”

“Read it without my permission, because they’re _nosy_?” Jean finishes for him, frowning and tucking the letter into his pocket.

Marco offers up a long suffering smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry because that’s exactly what you were doing?”

“No!”

“Well,” Jean sniffs, rubbing a little graphite that’s on his thumb against his trousers, “if you’re so keen on knowing about my personal life, it’s a letter from my mother.”

“Oh,” Marco says awkwardly. “That’s, um, nice.”

“She lives alone, so I try to send her money if I can.” He hesitates, then frowns a little as Marco offers up a friendly smile. “I do work on the side. Pocket-size nudes for wealthy pervert patrons. Unsigned and low prices, but always in demand.”

Marco’s eyes widen. “Oh!”

Jean keeps a neutral expression, his mouth a firm line. “Not exactly the type of thing you want getting around when you’re looking for a reputable position as a painter in Paris.”

“Well, I guess not,” Marco agrees. He bites his lip as he debates whether to tell Jean about his exploits into the countryside to do the exact type of painting that’d been shunned recently, but concludes it’s only fair. He lowers his voice, glancing around despite the fact that the room is clearly empty. “When I take the train out into the country, I’m not just doing landscape studies.” He clears his throat. “I paint the light and impressions of what I see.”

Jean raises an eyebrow critically, but he’s not stupid. “You’re painting exactly the way that will get you kicked out of the Academy,” he guesses. “Why? That’s a stupid move. You don’t get anything out of it.”

“Because that’s what moves my spirit.” Marco shakes his head. “I already told you, I didn’t come here because I don’t want to work on a farm. In fact,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, “I miss the farm. I miss my family and the sunshine, the seaside. This place is mostly rainy and depressing.”

“I grew up in this rainy, depressing shit hole,” Jean replies. At first, Marco thinks he’s offended, until recognizing the hint of dry amusement there. “And you’re exactly right—it’s a rainy, depressing shit hole, although the light _is_ interesting.”

“You pay attention to the light?” Marco asks.

“Of course. I’m an artist.”

“Well, I know that,” Marco hedges. “But you probably don’t need to pay too much attention to how the light is outside since you mostly paint fictional scenes.”

Jean snorts. “Fair point, I suppose. I notice everything whether I want to or not.” He runs a hand through his hair tiredly, sighing. 

“Bad news in the letter?” Marco guesses.

Jean eyes him without replying immediately, but finally he nods slowly. “Not terrible. I need to go by my mother’s house to make sure she’s all right. When when she writes me, I can’t always tell, and it’s been a while.”

Marco nods sympathetically. His parents are also self-sacrificing, even though they’re poor and have a large family.

“Would you like to come with me after that?” he asks impulsively. “The sun is out, and you probably won’t have enough time to come back here if you have to go all the way across the city.”

“Go with you where?”

“To paint outdoors.”

Jean gives him an incredulous look; Marco just smiles a little and shrugs. “Trust me, it’ll cheer you up. Being inside all the time isn’t good for people.”

*

Jean’s mother looks surprised to see someone else when they knock on her door, but she greets Marco warmly.

“This is Marco Bodt,” Jean introduces him simply. “He studies painting, too. Even though he looks like he came directly from a farm, he’s my biggest competition.”

Jean’s mother frowns at him and rolls her eyes a little, then offers Marco a hospitable look. “Don’t mind my son. You’d think he was raised in a barn.”

“I’m used to it,” Marco replies easily, though he’s trying not to stare at Jean since he just paid Marco a rather high compliment. He wasn’t aware that Jean considered anyone his competition, simply dismissing everyone around him.

It quickly becomes apparent that, although Jean is a bit of a curmudgeon both in public _and_ private, he cares a great deal for his mother. Marco is relieved to see that she appears to be fine, with plenty of food in the pantry (which she thanks Jean for several times as he hushes her) and a warm house.

“Jeanbo,” she calls from the other room where she’s tending to the wood stove in the kitchen, “it’s so sunny out today! Why don’t you get some light. You’re looking pale these days.”

Jean glances at Marco in embarrassment, cringing. “I’m fine. Thank you, _maman_.” He hesitates for a moment, before finishing, “Marco invited me to go paint in the country.”

Marco can’t help how his eyes widen and he meets Jean’s gaze in shock; all he receives in response is a shrug.

“That sounds like an excellent idea!” she enthuses. “You boys have a wonderful time.” 

*

It doesn’t take long to get beyond the city limits by train, and Jean stares out the window without much interest.

Marco, on the other hand, watches with the same intense fascination he always does, soaking it up like a sponge. Each thing he sees framed by the train window is something to be filed away for later, used in a different composition or to search for a different type of statement on life. The common isolated figures and broken roads found in Paris have both depressed and fascinated him.

“What are you staring at?” Jean asks incredulously. He cocks his head to the side, looking some combination of baffled and amused.

“The sights,” Marco answers simply, which makes Jean laugh.

Jean actually has a very nice laugh once he’s relaxed and not busy informing the world why he’s a superior talent.

“You can borrow some of my brushes if you want,” Marco offers, knowing Jean hasn’t brought anything with him.

“You’re really going to paint outdoors and call it a finished work?” Jean quizzes him flatly. “That’s even more insane than sneaking away to paint washed-up old people in bars.”

Marco shrugs with a little smile. “I’ll show you some of my sketches if you want.” He grows a bit more serious, lulled into a meditative state by the _click-clack_ of the train tracks. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like your opinion on them. You’re a better artist than me.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, but to his surprise, Marco notices very faint color high in his cheeks. “ _You’re_ a real artist,” he replies, nonplussed, but sounding honest. “I just do what I’m supposed to. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s the truth.”

Before Marco can reply, the train screeches to a halt. It’s the first stop outside the Paris city limits and their final destination.

The afternoon is so enjoyable that Marco almost forgets that he has to return to the dreary studio the next day. Jean even seems to forget that mere weeks ago, he’d scoffed at the idea of trying for a finished composition working _en plein air_.

After that, they visit the countryside once a week. Sometimes, Jean even brings his own paint brushes. The work he makes is so beautiful that it leaves Marco breathless. It’s how Marco would like to see the world: in light, color, truth. Beauty that goes outside of monumental figures or academic nudes.

He catches himself watching how the light plays against Jean’s face; he also finds it beautiful.

*

As the Salon de Paris exhibition draws closer, Jean has less time to spend doing anything except completing his _Sappho._

Marco spends more days inside than he’d like, but he enjoys Jean’s company at this point far too much to go to the countryside by himself.

In fact, Jean has become a permanent element in those passing portraits he keeps tucked away in his mind’s eye—a figure ensconced in the tapestry of light that plays over grass, trees, water. To Marco, Jean is as much the sun as he is an ordinary person bent over a worktable in the studio, eyebrows pinched together as he re-draws the same sketch for the fifth time, puzzling over the composition.

It’s only a matter of time until Marco’s own indifference toward the type of painting executed in the Academy becomes apparent, but he goes through the motions. If he’s lucky, he can at least find some like-minded artists in this new mode of painting labeled insane and laughable by critics.

It’s the night before the Salon de Paris exhibition, which features Jean’s monumental _Sappho_ prominently, that he finally needs to broach a topic he’s been avoiding.

“Jean?”

“Hm?” Jean hums absently. He’s in the middle of cleaning his brushes and packing up for the night. He’s already been at work on his next composition—always ahead of the curve.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Marco asks. “We can toast your accomplishment.”

Jean grins at him, running a hand through his hair. “Sounds good.”

They go to Café Guerbois which has become one of Marco’s regular haunts. Jean has nothing derisive to say about it now, though.

They order wine this time instead of coffee, and Marco’s full attention is focused on the man in front of him. He can’t help but stare at Jean’s lips as he takes a sip of the wine, the swallow of his throat. Jean’s tastes are expensive, heavy, dark—myths rendered in wine burgundy and jewel tones—whereas Marco’s are absinthe-colored dreams and lakes of light populated with real people. 

Whether it’s a lonely woman drinking by herself or Jean standing in the middle of a sun-dappled field, laughing at something Marco said with the breeze in his hair, painting freely; these are the things that comprise Marco’s truths. He’s finally found what he came to Paris to look for.

“Marco?”

Marco starts, realizing he’s gotten lost in his thoughts.

He has to tell Jean he’s leaving Paris. The Academy isn’t going to provide him any future the way things are going, and he can’t afford to live in the city without a reason. 

“I’m happy for you!” Marco exclaims, raising his glass to toast Jean heartily. “Maybe sometime, you can come visit me, even though I actually do live on a farm.” He chuckles, taking a long sip of his wine; it burns down his throat pleasantly. 

“Visit you?” Jean asks in surprise.

“The Academy isn’t where I belong,” Marco says with a slight shrug. “I’ve gotten a better education in this city by watching it than learning from nudes in a studio. And I met you.” He smiles warmly at Jean, and before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches across the table to press his hand against the back of Jean’s.

Jean’s eyes widen in shock, but before Marco can jerk away in embarrassment at his unthinking gesture, a set of deft fingers twine with his. 

No one is watching. It’s too late in the evening and the café is too full of drunk people to pay them much attention.

“You taught me how to paint,” Jean blurts out with a nervous little chuckle. “I mean, you taught me what it mean to be a real artist. I wasn’t joking when I said that before.”

Marco looks at him helplessly, glances down at their clasped hands, but doesn’t let go.

“You’re a real artist, too,” he finally says softly. “You know how to paint real life because you’re part of it.” Marco smiles, bittersweet. “Don’t take this as an insult, but you’re not perfect, Jean. You’re a regular person just like the people we watch and paint. We live in a world of impressions, and you’re a good painter because you pay attention.”

Jean sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. “You’re leaving, then?”

Marco nods. “My train leaves on Friday at the end of the term.”

They drink quietly after that, watching the people pass by in a blur of colors.

*

It’s raining, and Jean is late to the train station.

It’s the first thing Marco thinks as he waits, clutching his small suitcase. Just as he’s considering rescheduling a ticket for a later train, Jean appears. 

He’s wearing a suit, and Marco raises his eyebrows. He’s never seen Jean in a suit, but it’s unsurprising given the success of his painting that’s spread like wildfire through Paris’s social elite. A brilliant new painter emerging from the Academy to uphold all the finest tenets of French painting amidst _scoundrels trying to pass of quick studies as finished works_. Or so the critics say.

“I thought for minute you weren’t going to come,” Marco says with a little smile. “That’s a nice suit.”

“Of course I was going to come,” Jean retorts sharply, frowning at Marco. “But you’re not going to go.”

Marco just stares at him incredulously. “What?”

“I said, you’re not going to go.” He stares at Marco staunchly. “I’ve never done anything I really wanted. I took up painting because I was good at it. I enrolled at the Academy because I knew I’d be successful. I want to get my mother a nicer place to live in the parts of the city we used to pass by we didn’t belong.” He nods, taking a step closer to Marco, his voice growing softer. “But I never knew, until I met you, that I actually _like_ painting.”

Marco inhales deeply, trying to gather his wits, his head spinning. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears he can barely hear the sounds around them—the click-clack of horse hooves in the street, the screech of a locomotive pulling out, the bustling of the crowd, joyous human noise.

The truth is that he doesn’t want to leave Paris at all. He also doesn’t want to leave Jean.

“So, what do we do?” he asks quietly, shrugging. “I can’t afford to stay here.”

“I can,” Jean replies, looking a little desperate. “I’ve been offered so many commissions that I’ve had to start turning them down.” He frowns a little, looking down at the floor. “It was what I thought I always wanted, but now…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “Stay with me. Paint how ever you want, and in a few years, maybe I can, too.”

“You want me to stay?” Marco asks, his eyebrows raising. “Just for you?”

“Yes.” The word falls heavily between them, and then Jean leans forward and brushes a kiss against Marco’s lips. It happens so quickly that it seems no one even notices, probably chalking it to up to a friendly lean forward to tell a secret or a goodbye.

Marco blinks as they part, touching his fingertips to his lips in shock. There’s a few beats of silence until he gathers his wits enough to speak.

“If I help,” he replies softly, “maybe we can both paint what we want. I’m not actually that terrible at the myths if I put my mind to it.”

Jean’s laugh rings out. “Just a few more _Sappho_ s between us,” he smiles, “and we won’t have to worry.”

He grabs Marco’s arm to pull him closer, tugging him toward the exit of the train station that leads back out into the Parisian streets.

Marco knows this is madness as they walk side by side, leaving the train station behind. But maybe in order to really paint the world, one also has to live in it, populate it with their own figures and light, render it in their own vision. 

“Come on,” Jean offers, his voice joyful, “I got us a table in advance at Café Guerbois.” He smiles, reaching out to take Marco’s suitcase. “Just in case you said yes.”

Marco nods, watching the light play across Jean’s face as he turns and bids Marco follow.

The clouds have broken, and all the world is alight.


End file.
